


Domesticity

by wajjs



Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort Sex, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, F/M, Female Jason Todd, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:13:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25093657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: It's like through each coming and going they exist in a long conversation that never ends.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 84





	Domesticity

**Author's Note:**

> First fill for the [prompt party](https://wajjs.tumblr.com/post/621749076959117312/prompt-party) I'm hosting on tumblr :-D
> 
> The prompt said: _Slade/FemJay (Jason is fine if you're not up to FemJay) Caretaking after a rough day? Maybe some soft sex if you're up for it. Any AU you feel inspired for._
> 
> [Here's the og post](https://wajjs.tumblr.com/post/622046697400500224/sladefemjay-jason-is-fine-if-youre-not-up-to)

**Domesticity**

She lets out a snarl as she slips on the mud and stumbles to her knees. Rain keeps falling down on the world as she knows it, and it would be a beautiful thing, it could be, really, but it weighs her down, makes her tiredness heavier. And even if it's true that there are days when she prefers this weather, today it just feels exactly like the seventh kick to the ribs given by a goon the rare moment they managed to bring her to the ground.

A feeling she's intimately acquainted with to the point just thinking about it makes her fight back a wince and appreciate the fact that she's not in that situation currently. It's just rain. Rain and a week with little sleep, true, with the obsessive dosis of nightly fights, tumbles and near fumbles.

Today's been the worst of her days so far through the week, and there's still the weekend left to go. With a curse, she gets up again, doesn't bother cleaning the mud from her clothes when the cascading water will do the job for her just fine. Instead, she eats the distance towards her goal with the hunger of a predator who has their prey on sight, right where it can't run.

Go in, get shit done, go back to where she comes from. Easy. Truly so, and it's likely to remain in that state of being without or with rain in the middle. If anything, it makes up for good ambiance, a background of sound and image that makes seeing distances all harder.

She is simply not in the mood for it. But she's professional about it, which means that things such as tiredness, lack of appreciation for the weather and the like, they are all promptly shoved aside the minute it's go time.

And she's a marvel when she strikes.

By the time she makes it back to the safehouse, she's drenched to the bone and deeper than that. Drenched to the soul, dripping right into the thirsty part of it, the one with the bleeding mouth and the crystal eyes. Even the feeling of accomplishment, as glorious as it can be, is faint now under all that rainwater that's steadily stripping away all her masks, getting under all the chips and cracks.

Right over the threshold to the main area she stands, puddle under and around her feet. One by one she removes layers: her helmet, her jacket, her body armour. The belt, the guns, her boots. Her pants, her under armour. It's by no means a show when it's so methodical and calm, with no afterthought directed at any possible audience. And in truth, there's little to no sensual feeling adjacent to being the equivalent of a wet dog coming back to the house after spending the worst of the storm outside.

Her mask is the very last thing to come off. Perhaps the most important piece of self-defense she always carries around. Her right to herself, to her own entity and identity. Something no one else can ever own, take or blow up. She's herself to own and experience, these are her choices, her life she's putting on the line - her vision and mission, no longer straining under arbitrary rules that never quite fitted her skin. She's made of different stipulations altogether. A beast that should never have a leash.

Once it comes off, she sets the most delicate parts of her ensemble to dry on the low table nearest the entrance. The rest, she gathers it all up in her arms, walks through the safehouse in her underwear to then dump her clothes unceremoniously into the washer. In the dimly lit room she doesn't grow tense when a (dry, strong, warm) pair or arms find their place around her (damp, cold) waist. All the contrary, she begins to relax.

"You should toss in your underwear with the rest of the load," Slade says as his way of welcoming her back, which is fair, because their last words were as unimportant as  _ don't you dare watch that movie without me. _

It didn't matter if they could both recite the dialogue word for word.

(It's like through each coming and going they exist in a long conversation that never ends; one with pauses and hiccups and misunderstandings, but never a full stop, never an ending point. It's probably what keeps bringing them together and why neither bother to fight it, because it's natural, it's comfortable, which makes them convenient for each other.)

"If you let me go for just one minute, I'll do just that," there's a gentle laughter to her voice, one that hadn't been there before, not even in potential. It's not yet enough to make her forget the weariness she's carrying in every limb, but it does bring light into the fog of the day.

Slade humors her, hums as he takes a step backwards and looks at her from her toes to her head. She doesn't mind the gaze, it's welcome, it's known, and there's no blush rising to her cheeks when she moves both hands to the elastic of her sports bra on her sides. She looks at her partner straight in the eye, fleeting smile dancing between them; there's the indent of the elastic that left an imprint on her skin, exposed now that she's taking the garment off. It falls with no discernible sound atop the pile of wet clothes inside the washer.

When she moves her fingers to the waistband of her panties, Slade steps back into her space, laying his hands atop hers.

"How did it go?"

"Well enough," she says, left eyebrow twitching upwards. "Even got an impromptu mud bath. They are not as relaxing as they are said to be."

He snorts, leans in a little closer till his beard tickles her temple, his nose buried in her hair. 

"And when was the last time you tried sleeping?"

She pretends to think of an answer. She even considers taking her time, except she's damp and chilly even with Slade's body heat so close to her. 

"Does it matter?"

"Jay," he smiles a tight-lipped thing before he's finally kissing her, mouth to mouth and finally it registers that they are both back, at exactly the same time.

The storm outside keeps raging but it's a long forgotten thing when Jay's naked on top of the washing machine with Slade's head between her legs. She's definitely warm now, wet in more than one meaning, and her gasps tumble out of her lips without knowing any end.

He's the best at giving her what she needs without having her spelling it out. Maybe because he's got years of practice, or perhaps it's because they are tuned to each other. Both options are possible. And the two hold some truth to them.

Slade drags the flat of his tongue over her folds and she digs her teeth into her lip, chewing it, reigning in the scream slowly building up right deep inside. One of her hands is pressed flat against the closed lid of the washer, with the other she keeps teasing her nipple, pinched between her fingertips. Slade looks up at Jay and smiles at the sight. She's beautiful with pleasure making her glow, like she's one of a kind.

And he has her coming undone on his tongue, Jay's hips twitching because she's sensitive but he's not pulling away, no. He's spreading her legs even more, plunging his tongue as deep as it will go once, twice, before he's moving to her clit and she's louder now, voice echoing off the walls.

"Slade!" she speaks his name into existence and this only makes him determined to have her do so all over again.

He carries her to the shower afterwards. Jay huffs the short way there but the line of her shoulders is relaxed now and the set of her eyebrows is no longer a rigid line. Her eyelids are heavy and with her swollen mouth she looks absolutely divine. It makes this ever-growing want even more undeniable. It will also ignite next morning their urges to bring distance between each other.

But that's not what matters now.

Jay laughs as Slade presses her against the wall of the shower, kisses him in hunger and desire as he thrusts inside her, and they remain under the spray until the hot water turns lukewarm to then go cold.


End file.
